


Snowballs

by Esthree



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esthree/pseuds/Esthree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy winter story where Thorin and Dwalin are going to a fair in the village not far from the Blue Mountains.</p><p>And I want to say huge THANKS to Saetha (Selina) who made a great work of proof reading this text (as well, as the others). I can't express all my gratitude to you <3 <3 <3 If it weren't for you I'd never dared post it! *hugs*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowballs

**Author's Note:**

> Actually it was written for a prompt of a friend of mine who wanted a fic, based on this beautiful kollage: http://i.imgur.com/dex7OvQ.png (of which I don't know the author unfortunately, so if you do, please let me know).

 

  
Plop! A snowball lands at Dwalin’s feet, falling into the dust of the narrow road. Dwalin turns around in time to catch sight of a ruddy human boy who gives a small squeak, hiding behind the walls of an ice fortress. Though the next moment he continues to throw snow missiles at his pals who are assaulting the fortification, aiming better this time.

Dwalin shakes his head and quickens his pace in order to catch up with Thorin who has already disappeared behind the corner. Those human children, mischievous as they are, remind him of two little rascals from the Blue Mountains. Thorin’s nephews are still too young for such games, but they somehow manage to turn everything in their proximity upside-down. Dwalin snorts. The older one looks much like his uncle. And the little one even has his hair. The character though… that is another thing. Perhaps it’s for the better — Ered Luin can’t stand another one like Thorin, that’s for sure.

Having stepped out of the gates of the small town, Thorin casts a glance at the gloomy sky and with a frown starts walking towards the mill stones marking the west road, half-drowned in snow. Dwalin sighs, readjusts his cross belt and follows two steps behind. Thorin frowns too often lately, there is a rough line on his forehead as if carved with a graving tool. He has never been one for merriment, but Dwalin remembers his smile — so bright that it rivaled diamonds. As a boy Thorin was never restless like Kíli. He was not calm like Fíli either. But his pranks, carefully planned and perfectly thought-out, made his parents clutch at their heads in despair and then clutch the belt. And Dwalin’s parents too, him always being party to Thorin’s ventures.

Later though… later they’d all had to set aside childish games, and that shining smile was replaced by a deep frown and set jaw. There were few reasons for joy and many more for a headache.

Last year hadn’t been an exception. A particularly dry summer was followed by a cold autumn with steady downpours and early frosts. Most of the crops in the human villages and even the Shire perished before harvesting. What little they managed to buy at an outrageous price was in danger of rotting off soon. They could go hunting to replenish the stocks, but by the end of winter the game, scraggy and mangy, was of little use for pelts as well as food. It was Balin who recalled that there was a tribe of fishermen living on the bank of an Ice Bay. Sometimes they came to villages close to the Blue Mountains to trade fish, fur and ivory articles for tools.

The bargain could be called a good one: fishermen didn’t ask more than what they were ready to give. While Thorin was dealing with their chief, Dwalin had time enough to ask the price of a smooth seal fur, choose two tusks — a bigger one to make a knife-handle and a smaller one — for a comb, and even bought sweets for the little ones as Dís asked him to do. It had been a nice day indeed.

Climbing up the steep slope, Dwalin begins to hum a cheerful tavern song, but almost immediately shuts up when Thorin sends him exasperated look over his shoulder.

“We should hurry up. The weather can change any moment.”

Dwalin nods reluctantly. The light grey sky doesn’t speak of a snow storm, and the birds in the roadside forest keep chattering, but it’s of no use to oppose Thorin when he is in that mood. It would do some good to get him drunk. And get drunk himself too. Dwalin remembers large steaming cauldrons at the fair, full of mulled wine. Funny stuff, but it would have done for the lack of a better one. Thorin’s shoulders wouldn’t have been so slouched, as if he was carrying the Blue Mountains on it. Maybe he wouldn’t have snapped at a simple joke and smiled at him as he had once.

Snow sticks to the bottom of the boots, the fur becoming cloggy and wet. Dwalin pulls out his leg from another deep snowdrift and swears, staring at Thorin’s back far ahead. Just one good push would be enough to bring him down, to see those black locks tossed over the white snow and deep blue eyes sparkling with laughter, to cover those lips with his own, relishing their taste — rough and sweet at the same time, to feel the warmth spread inside, making his heart beating high. Maybe tonight…

“Got stuck there?” Thorin turns his head and frowns. “The sun sets in two hours. Move! We’ve things to do.”  
_  
Well, you asked for it._ Dwalin scoops up a handful of snow, swiftly forms a heavy snowball and sends it right between Thorin’s shoulder blades.

“What the f…”

Thorin turns around but has no time to finish his swearing — another snowball hits him in the ear, leaving a generous amount of wet crumbs in his hair and on the fur of his collar.

“You!”

And the next one strikes him in his stomach. _Fine, you started this…_

Dwalin barely has the time to dodge the first snowball, but the next one touches his shoulder. He answers with a hit to Thorin’s forehead, steps back to avoid another missile aimed at his head, and then there’s snow plastering his face and he makes another throw by guess and almost misses. He spits out the snow filling up his mouth, scoops up another handful, throws it, using his other arm as a shield, bends down when the snowball flies directly in his head, and sends two of his own…

Thorin is more agile, he moves faster, aims at the head, and Dwalin’s beard is already heavy with wet lumps. Clouds dissipate and the sun finally peeps out making the shadows thicker. The white field near the roadside forest flares up with thousands of bright sparkles, and the shining glossy ice crust on top of the snowrifts almost blinds them.

Dwalin narrows his eyes and sends his snowball a little bit to the left, foreseeing Thorin’s next move, and the latter makes a grouchy snort when a big lump of snow hits his unprotected neck, falling down into his collar. Smiling wildly, he bends to take another handful of snow, and soon there is a real hail of blows hitting Dwalin in the chest, in the temple, in the cheek…

Dwalin bends his head, makes a dart towards his friend and throws an arm around him, trying to tackle him to the ground. He almost does. At the last moment Thorin manages to twine his foot around his knee and they fall together in a particularly large snowdrift. Dwalin brings his arms forward and they go elbow-deep into the snow, and he’s almost lying on top of Thorin, drowning in his eyes of bright blue, like the blue of the thin spring ice on the river. Thorin’s lips are slightly ajar and his warm breath ghosts over his face, settling down on his beard as rime.

Thorin squeezes his shoulder, Dwalin bends forward… and gets a kick in his belly promptly finding himself lying on his back in the nearby snowdrift. He swears, feeling a cold touch against his bare neck, and Thorin laughs while throwing some handfuls of snow at him. Dwalin snorts and answers by doing the same.

“The sun is setting.” Thorin muses as he’s looking at some distant unmoving clouds that seem to stick to the sky.

“Aye.”

“We could stay here. Make a fire, cut fir-twigs to make a bed.”

“Dís would be worried. If we don’t make it back before midnight, she’ll send a search party.”

“We’ll hide in the forest and cover up the tracks… Let them search.”

Dwalin suddenly feels his throat thicken with emotions. Thorin has never voiced such thoughts, not even as a joke, never made a hint. It’s clear that he doesn’t truly mean it, those are just wild thoughts carelessly spoken out loud. But they make a warm feeling settle in his chest, filling him up, and the snowflakes don’t seem so cold anymore – simply a white quilt covering them and hiding them from the whole world.

“What are we going to eat there?”

Thorin shrugs his shoulders.

“We can hunt.”

“Great. It’s icy cold at night, we’ll freeze to death,” grouses Dwalin.

“I’ll keep you warm,” Thorin smiles, making a move to rise, and Dwalin throws some more snow at him. Thorin laughs, shaking his head, and melting snow-flakes shine in his hair like diamond powder.

“It’s time.”

Thorin is up with ease and holds out a hand. Dwalin takes it, gets to his feet and starts shaking his head, pulling out icicles from his hair and beard. Thorin looks at him thoughtfully.

“There’s snow there.”

He forcefully pats Dwalin on the back, on the chest, on the shoulders, making him reel.

“You’ve got it too” Dwalin seizes the opportunity and slaps him on the ass with all his might. Thorin punches him in the side and laughs, bringing his head down so that the black curtain of his hair hides his blush.

 

***

“Finally!”

Dís jumps up from her chair, nearly sending the chessboard on the floor.

“Where have you been so long? I had a hard time putting boys to b…” She throws an angry glance at her brother and stands still on the doorstep. “Mahal’s beard! Thorin, what happened? You are both wet through and through.”

“It’s nothing.” Thorin gently touches her shoulder. “I slipped down a slope.”

He enters the room, leaving traces of snow behind which immediately turn into puddles on the stone floor. Dwalin lingers on the doorstep, trying to shake the snow from his fur coat. Dís places her hands on her hips and eyes him from head to toe.

“And…”

“And Dwalin came to help.” Thorin grins at them.

Dwalin catches his brother’s furtive look and sniffs.

“Take off your clothes, now.” Dís takes their cloaks, hanging them up near the door.

Having stripped down to their underwear, Dwalin and Thorin sit down on the bearskin rug near the fire, draping a blanket around their shoulders. In a fit of generosity Dís even pours them a bit of her famous liqueur, and Dwalin buries his nose in the tankard, listening absently to Thorin and Balin discussing the details of the deal with the fishermen. Thorin seems less tense, his shoulders no longer painfully strained, and the harsh lines of his face slowly smoothing out.

When Dís and Balin finally leave, he turns to Dwalin with a frown.

“Anyway we should send a hunting party this month.”

Dwalin nods. _Half of a mug is not nearly enough._

“Do you happen to know, where Dís is hiding her precious drink?”

Thorin snorts.

Together they empty a bottle that could bring down a mountain troll and black out on the floor, too tired to make it to bed.

When Dwalin wakes up, it’s still night. Embers gleam faintly in the fireplace and cold air chills his back – Thorin must have pulled the blanket off him to take it all for himself, as always. Dwalin puts his hand on Thorin’s waist and moves closer, burying his cold nose into those soft tangled strands, reaching for the warm neck. Thorin mutters something under his breath, not pleased with the freezing touch, curves his back and tries to draw back from the contact. Dwalin pulls him closer, sliding his hand lower, and breathes hotly in his ear, meant as apology.

“I won’t wake you, but it seems I’m getting cold.”

Thorin murmurs something unintelligible and snuggles up to him, covering Dwalin’s hand with his own as a proof that he is not going back on his word.


End file.
